


godsend angel (sigh no more)

by EKmisao



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Religious, M/M, Religious Content, occasional nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EKmisao/pseuds/EKmisao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man of God stared at the young man in front of him. The young man looked more like a man from God and of God than he ever wil.  </p><p>(AKA keio's #wanderer_and_seminarian_AU tag on tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/gifts).



> This is based on an art challenge by K that was filled by jen-suis and her friend perplexingly on tumblr. So, yeah, apparently I do AU stuff for this kid now. I'm the first to not believe it. 
> 
> The comic this is based on [is here](http://jen-suis.tumblr.com/post/46868059487/kannibal-requested-enjolras-seeking-refuge-in-a). 
> 
> There is no guarantee at this point if this will have more chapters. ^^; I just wanted to keep this somewhere before tumblr buries it (as usual). 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.

The man of God stared at the young man in front of him. The young man looked more like a man from God and of God than he ever wil. 

He swore before he could stop himself. “Jesus Christ.” Apollos had come down from the firmament. Wait, that was a Greek god, and that was not the one he was supposed to be serving. 

He had had one bottle too many, and the angel was coming to claim him for his crimes against spirituality. Got wet in the rain on the way to him, too. Yes, that was a better explanation. 

He spoke calmly enough. “Welcome, godsend angel, what message do you bring?”

“I don’t know what you mean, father,” the young man said. His tousled wavy hair fell damp over his head. 

“I’m not a father,” he declared. “Anyway, I know what you mean. Come inside. You’re wet. That much I can tell.” He could not say no to an angel…probably. Especially if it was soaked to the skin. 

“Only a place to stay for the night, father…” 

“Grantaire, if you please. I like my wine, but I’m nobody’s father…thank God! And I’m not anything high that you can call by an honorific.” 

The young man smiled through the wet hair. 

The seminarist grabbed a lantern and led the soaked angel through the halls for passing pilgrims. He stopped at an open heavy door. 

“Here is your cell, hope you will enjoy the food (i don’t) and, dear Gabriel, put a good word for our monastery to our lord, my brothers’d be obliged(i think).”

The young man glared at him, in spite of himself, probably thinking of the blasphemy he may have just spouted. 

The seminarist raised the bottle in his left hand. “You drink? I’d like the company.” 

The young man blinked and stared. 

“It’s cold, and the brandy is warm inside me. It’s all. It’s not the holy stuff, if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

The young man raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m the weirdest monk you ever did see, huh?” he said. “Ah well. I can’t do much else. At least serving God gets you fed. Need anything else?” 

The young man shook his head, with a slight chuckle. “Thank you….erm….brother Grantaire. I’ll be gone at first light.” 

“Nah, you can stay a bit until breakfast, the nuns are used to pilgrims passing through….um….who am I talking to?” 

“Enjolras. sir.” 

The Apollos angel had a name. He just got warmer under the collar. 

“Actually you can stay the week,” he blurted.


	2. early last rites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the combined semi-random tumblr typings of the last few days. Because I was tired, Palanca is only and forever will be merely a street, other stories won't form, and I've had an overload of Athelstan. Which is not to stay that it's Athelstan that you will get in this thing, you're still getting a snarky drunk.

The wanderer slept like the dead, for most the day. The young man was so pale, and so stiff. Some of the priests had asked if they needed to do last rites. Some of the older ones already did. 

The seminarian scratched his head and shrugged. The young man just needed the rest, and would be alright and hungry the day after today. 

Part of it was the fever the wanderer had caught from the rain. But he was too asleep for the seminarian to do anything useful, besides changing the cool cloths over the wanderer’s forehead. The seminarian just hoped it would be rather soon. 

Though, the wanderer did make the most handsome non-corpse the seminarian had seen in his years in the cloister. The young man looked almost princely, and Grantaire kept wondering if the wanderer was someone he should know. But if he were, would not the heads of the cloister have known? 

He wanted so much to bend down and kiss those pale unmoving lips, to breathe a little more life into them. But this was not a chaste thought, yes? He probably should be washing it away…with more of the untransfigured blood of the lamb of God. Wait…that was not a chaste thought either. 

He slammed his forehead. Why the heck was this religion so hard? 

...............................

Morning vespers. In his cloister it was sung, with much reverence and devotion. On most days he hated waking up to the haunting heavenly voices that echoed through the chapel, because it meant that he was late for morning prayer with a hangover and not one of those singing. 

Since they had a sick pilgrim in the premises, this time he was not obliged to join, which was quite a relief. He smiled as he sipped his tea, thanking all the saints he did not have to croak along. 

It was just then when the seminarian saw the wanderer’s eyes slowly flutter open. The wanderer did not stir. He merely kept his eyes open and stared at the ceiling. 

“I’m dead. The angels are singing,” he said. 

“No such good fortune today, pilgrim,” Grantaire replied.

Startled, the wanderer turned to his side and looked at the seminarian. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living. Some bread and water? Or some wine to warm you?” 

The wandered lifted himself up to sitting, with much effort. “Thank you for last night. I must be going…” 

“If you go, you will really have angels singing over you soon.” Grantaire settled him back onto the pallet. The warmth was not as bad as yesterday, but it still burned through the skin of his palms. “Enjolras, isn’t it? A few more day’s rest won’t bother our supplies. We’re used to people like you passing through.” 

Enjolras reluctantly let himself down again. “You’ll get in trouble with the king if you keep me here.” 

Grantaire grinned at the wanderer. “If you don’t want it, he won’t know.” 

.................................

For the hours afterward, the wanderer kept his eyes open, looking upward, staring at the moldy ceiling. Sometimes they closed, as he went back to sleep. Then the eyes would open again, and keep staring upward for many long moments. 

The older priests came around to deliver last rites to the wanderer again. He kept staring at the ceiling through the proceeding, not giving any sign that he heard or that he was even aware. But whenever anyone gave him the sign of the cross, sprinkled the holy water, then tried to close his eyes for eternity….they would feel weak breaths warming the hand. 

The seminarian waved a hand over the wanderer’s eyes the next morning.

The wanderer blinked. 

“Oh, good.” Grantaire smiled over him. “I thought you were a goner.” 

The wanderer’s mouth slowly and gradually lengthened and bent into a smirk. 

“Do you sleep with your eyes open? Or were you just ignoring everybody else? Because you were ignoring some rather important people here.”

Enjolras blinked a few times. “T’was just….thinking,” he said.

“About?”

“What happens after here.”

“The life eternal?”

“Of course not,” the wanderer said. “Where do I go next. I mean, after I leave the cloister.” 

“But…?” 

“But what?” 

“You keep thinking while you stare at the ceiling so intently that the priests can deliver last rites without you knowing?” 

The wanderer raised an eyebrow. “Huh? What do you mean?” 

Grantaire did not reply, but smiled. So he had been right. Enjolras was one remarkable sleeper. And he was still unwell. “Can you stop worrying about leaving us and just get better?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narcoleptic Enjolras in any manifestation is K's fault, by the way.


	3. lunatic saint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr will soon be burying my last few random posts, so in this and the succeeding chapter are the compiled randomness. 
> 
> Thank you for liking.

The dining hall grew quiet when the seminarian arrived. He shrugged. He was rather used to this, and familiar with the punishment of washing dishes for all the monks and seminarians afterward. If he was not late for morning vespers, he went back to bed after them and was late for breakfast. He liked washing dishes, so it was no big deal. 

But today the monks remained silent as he received his bread and pottage, as he prayed quickly for his meal, as he ate. Everyone stared at him, not with anger or annoyance, but with…something else. More like reverence. 

Grantaire finally looked up from his food. “What? Is there something on my face?” he asked. 

It was then that one of the elders stood. He hobbled slowly but surely toward the seminarian. 

“My son. You seem to have sheltered our Lord. Or one of His saints come to us from heaven.” 

He shrugged again, and spooned up a helping into his mouth. “Well, he does look like he’s not from this world…but why do you say that?”

The monks and seminarians all looked out the window to the garden. They all had that look of reverence on their faces that he saw only when the Body and Blood were raised in mass. 

Grantaire peered out the window himself. 

He dropped his spoon. 

He found the wanderer walking barefoot through the garden, wearing the nightgown from the last two nights, his eyes partly glazed over. 

The eldest monk raised his hands heavenward. “He has risen from death. May the saints be praised.”

“He is risen!” chorused the others.

Grantaire, however, ran out of the dining hall, swearing, “The devil take that lunatic!”

He rushed into the cloister’s vegetable garden. He was still a little hung over; the sight just past the dining hall window had sobered him completely. 

He found him staring blankly at the rows of carrot tops, standing at the head of one row. 

Worrying that the wanderer had added sleepwalking to his odd skills, Grantaire quickly waved a hand across the eyes. But the wanderer turned and faced him. 

“Sorry. How long have you been standing there?” 

“I ask the same question of you, good pilgrim,” the seminarian retorted. 

“Your carrots look good and healthy,” he said with a smile. 

“Please don’t change the subject yet,” Grantaire interrupted. He smacked the back of his hand over the wanderer’s forehead. It no longer felt warm. “Are you better? Have you eaten? Why are you out here with just a nightgown?” 

Enjolras smiled. “Yes, no, and I don’t know where my clothes are, I had hoped to find it by looking around, but I only got as far as the garden.” 

“Because you already want to leave.” 

The wanderer smiled again.

Three smiles in succession only proved to the seminarian that the godsent angel was still not fully well. He was not sure why he knew that the smirks were the more normal expression from this princely young man from somewhere. 

“You’re still not leaving this monastery, not in that condition, good sir,” Grantaire declared. 

Enjolras chuckled bitterly. “Why do you even care about me? Because of the goodness of your heart?”

“Heavens, no!” Grantaire immediately replied. “it’s just that….I….um…”

He realized that he could not say his true reason. That he liked this stranger, and he wanted to make him stay, so he could keep him. He did not know why, or how.

“…I find you, intriguing,” was what the seminarian finally decided on saying.

...................................

The monks kept walking past the cell where the wanderer was, catching a glimpse of the stranger as well as they could. The seminarians passed, stared at the pilgrim, and crossed themselves as they walked the hall. 

Grantaire scratched his head at this. Enjolras merely sat up in bed reading. The wanderer finished the prayer book in a few minutes. At the moment he was reading through the word of Thomas Aquinas, and seemed to be engrossed in the reading. 

“He must be the Saint Thomas making himself known to us,” the monks decided. 

That made the seminarian feel odd. If he was the Saint Thomas coming in another body, wouldn’t that worthy saint know his own words and not have to read them all over again? 

The wanderer did not talk with the other men of the cloth besides Grantaire, and even the seminarian did not know why. He bowed or nodded politely, but did not say anything. 

There were still long moments when the wanderer would stop and look up the ceiling for several long moments, then look down at the book again. Then there were other times when the book would suddenly drop onto his lap, as his eyes shut and his head bobbed. 

He ate sparingly and sparsely, not because the food was awful (which, Grantaire thought, it was), but because he seemed distracted. 

“What is it about Aquinas’s words that interests you?” the seminarian finally asked. 

“The call to seek truth,” Enjolras answered. “Though, it annoys me.” 

“What does?” 

“All he talks about is seeking truth. But he doesn’t want to take action.” 

Grantaire shrugged. “That’s already a lot, isn’t it?” Aquinas readings tended to give him a headache. 

“It’s not enough,” the wanderer said.


	4. silly dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the two 'um, yeah' tumblr posts. I'm still not sure why they happened. 
> 
> NSFW, though it's not much.

The wanderer did not finish what dinner the cloister had given, which was already a sparse helping of potato soup and bread. He also did not finish the text he was reading, leaving the book opened where he stopped. 

Grantaire gently removed the soup bowl from the wanderer’s lap, and the book from the pallet. Enjolras’s head had fallen backward and leaned on the stony wall. The eyes were closed, the lips were pale. 

The seminarian was used to seeing things like this by now, the way he had gotten used to the odd stares the monks gave to what they considered a breathing religious relic. 

But something about the wanderer worried him at the moment. Something was wrong, but it was not that he was sick. It was something else. 

He waved the hand over the wanderer’s face and did not get a response. He did not feel the gentle breath over the lips. 

He gulped. He frantically placed a hand over the forehead, placed an ear over the heart. “Are you asleep? Are you dead?” he asked. “Please don’t be dead…” 

He took a deep breath, dove in, and placed his mouth over the wanderer’s own, hoping to force some air into the young man’s lungs, at least to coax him to cough then gasp for air. 

But as soon as his mouth met the half-parted lips, he felt the breath being stolen from him, and his mouth locked in place. He felt a tongue touching his own, and felt hands keeping his head. 

What in the name of —

Breaths kept being stolen from him, as his lips were tasted knowingly but gently. His heart pounded loudly under his cassock. He felt his groin stiffen. He awkwardly placed his own hands around the wanderer’s damp blonde curls, keeping his place steady. 

This was not a dream, and he was not drunk. He felt the heady sensation of being drunk rising in him, but it was not because of the wine in the monastery. This was not a dream, and he was not drunk. 

In his mind he spoke the only prayer he could just then:

Please, God. Don’t let this end too soon. 

The moments passed in the slowest way possible as they were so close. He felt his heart pounding the moments, and it beat the time so slowly, yet pounded so quickly. 

The last time he kissed anyone was a farm maid, back when he was an altar boy. It was so long ago, and the farm maid did not like him anyway. And that was a simple peck on the girl’s cheek. 

He fumbled through everything, letting the wanderer do everything, just following along as well as he thought he could. At every moment his thoughts flew to God, oddly enough. Please, let the host of heaven let this go on, just a little while longer. If this is sin please forgive me but I’m doing this. If this is wrong why can’t it be right. If this is as close to heaven as I’m going to get please let this go on, just a little while longer.

it was the wanderer who drew back, finally, leaving the seminarian gasping for air, crossing his heart, ensuring his soul was intact. It felt so wrong, it felt so right. He was probably breaking some heavenly rules and would have to go to a long confession then several rounds of the rosary, but by everything holy those dry lips tasted sweet. 

The wanderer fell back onto the pallet…and proceeded to snore. 

What in the —

Grantaire summarily but gently tapped Enjolras on the cheek, and shook him by the shoulders. “Wake up, you! Confound this, you have to answer me! Wake up!” He kept tapping and shaking. “Wake up, please!” 

The wanderer draggedly lifted from the deep slumber, first groaning then yawning. He finally opened his eyes. “Morning already? Is there a fire?” 

“Explain to me what just happened!” Grantaire demanded. 

“What?” He yawned again. “I was just reading…” 

“What were you dreaming about? Tell me.” 

“Dreaming? Nothing.” The wanderer looked at him oddly. 

“That’s impossible.” The seminarian’s cheeks burned. “You…you…kissed me!” 

“I did?” he asked, complete wonder on his face. 

The seminarian nodded, his face fully red and warm. 

“Well…was it good?” 

The seminarian glared at him. “How should I know?” 

The wanderer shrugged. “If your face is like that, maybe it was,” he replied coolly. “I’m glad.” 

The seminarian slunk to the floor beside the pallet. “I do not understand.” 

“Your eyes have been asking for it, since I arrived,” the wanderer said with a chuckle. “I seem to have paid my debt at last. For your kindness.”

The seminarian kept staring at him, at the princely face from an unknown place, at the thin physique slowly regaining strength from sickness. He stared like all the other monks did, at a holy man came down from heaven. He had been given undeserved pleasure, quite suddenly, and neither of them properly knew how it happened. 

“You want more?” the wanderer asked. 

“Not…not….tonight,” the seminarian stuttered. “Go…go…back to sleep.” 

Instead, the wanderer reached over and held his cheek. He bent over and kissed the forehead. Then he planted kisses on the seminarian's neck.


	5. devil angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the last random tumblr posts of the last few days. If they sound highly random, it's because they get written when I'm tired. Like, wiped out.

He woke up with the worst hangover of his life, he who knew hangovers from the unchanged blood of the lamb. He groaned as he held his head. 

His cassock was still on, but it was all askew. Cramped beside him was a warm body, the nightgown opened at the chest. The golden curls tumbled over the face, partly covering it as the wanderer slept. 

He bent down slowly and kissed the marble-chisled face on the forehead. It was cool with the night chill. The wandered hmmmed and turned slightly toward him. 

He heard morning vespers sung and completed. He now heard the roosters and chickens singing out the arrival of the morning. 

He could not been seen like this, or he might be kicked out of the monastery. He could not exactly tell the cloister that he had felt heaven through a saint, now could he.

He walked through the hallways to the dining hall, his head in the clouds, his face flustered, his hair tousled. 

The monks and seminarians could not help but notice. “What has happened to you? Have you eaten some wild mushrooms?” 

He gave them the only statement he could quickly think of that would get a satisfying enough answer: “I have been to hell, and I have reached heaven.” 

Of course that did not make sense. But to the men of the cloth, it sufficed. 

......................................

The entire monastery saw a spirit lurking throughout the cloister that morning, pale and white, floating calmly though the hallways. The seminarians watched in awe, the monks glanced in reverence. 

Grantaire followed with concern. 

There were places the cloister had restricted against guests, and yet the spirit floated through these forbidden halls, wearing his newly-mended clothes. The seminarian was always too late as the spirit slid between gratings, disappeared behind walls, soared over fences. The poor seminarian never even got close to saying “You shouldn’t go there….”. 

He finally managed to tell him, “I wish you would ask permission first before you do things.” 

“That would be boring,” Enjolras said, pausing by a window. “I just wanted to see what kind of place this is, before I go.” 

“Please don’t,” he begged. 

“That would be dangerous,” Enjolras answered immediately. 

“Why?” 

“Even that is dangerous to say.” The wanderer answered with a bitter smirk. 

The seminarian faced him squarely. “Try me.” 

Enjolras looked at both sides, and down past the window. They were alone. 

The wanderer flashed a terrible smile. 

“I am the voice of change. I am the goad that awakens the sleeping beasts to their plight. I am the word that makes people think. Therefore I am danger, doubt, despair.” 

The wanderer watched him, the smile burning through his soul, the eyes piercing through his heart. 

“Now let me go, you man of God. Or I’ll take you to hell with me.” 

Grantaire let the rhetoric pierce his heart and stab his soul. Then he shrugged. “Yes, well. What is it that you do, really?” 

Enjolras glared. “I am the —” 

“Plain words, please.” 

The wanderer kept glaring at him. But he composed himself, and took several deep breaths. 

Then he answered, “I am an agitator.” 

Agitator. It was just like the young man announced that he was the devil incarnate, sent from hell to tempt people into following evil, to add the numbers in that fiery eternity. 

If it were any other monk. 

This one, a young seminarian, frequently drunk, often hungover, hating on all the boring hours copying books by hand, having to follow the calligraphy that he never managed to imitate…. chuckled. 

He shrugged, as he gave the wanderer an uneven grin. 

“It has been often said, in the Holy Book, that our Lord Himself spoke truth in a way unaccepted by the leaders of His time,” the seminarian said. “I guess He’d be the greatest agitator.” 

The wanderer smiled. 

“So, godsent angel. What message do you hide?” Grantaire asked. 

“I could get you in trouble,” Enjolras said. 

“That’s the message?” 

The wanderer glared. 

“Oh, please. I’m nearer to hell than I’ll ever be to heaven,” The seminarian chuckled, bitterly. “I’m just here for the food and the wine. If I have to get a hot afterlife, it better be for something exciting. What secret knowledge do you have?”

“I warned you.”

Grantaire nodded.

Enjolras smiled, the grin of the devil within an angelic face.


	6. apparition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the 'further proof that apparently I write in bursts' thing. Which it is, after a week or two of feeling sorry for myself. Thank you to those who liked it in the tumblr version.
> 
> As a reminder, mildly NSFW. Though probably not by much.

He was gone. Just like that. 

There were no goodbyes, no words of thanks, no stated plans. The seminarian would have even preferred a slow fading into thin air, or a gentle rising off the floor and past the ceiling and into the sky. But no such thing happened. He merely found an empty room that next morning, cleared of every trace of the strange young agitator. Like he had never been there. 

The seminarian had been pounded by the agitator with theories and knowledge from places he barely knew, by wise men he was sort-of familiar with. Words from Aristotle, Plato, Solon, Socrates. Thoughts by Galen. Some things he gleaned from the Orient. Messages of discontent from territories, generally near his own. Stories of pain and suffering. 

Quite frankly he did not think these bits of knowledge the agitator spouted were dangerous. Interesting, they were indeed. He considered them harmless, if considered in proper circles and with an open mind. He was more worried about the stories of pain and suffering of the adjacent fiefdoms and territories. Now, those could get a man killed, for going against the king. 

But Enjolras merely dumped them on him, then asked him to think on them. Then the agitator disappeared. 

………………………..

He did his duties as a seminarian in a worse daze than ever before, and that while he was sober. At every waking moment he questioned his sanity. Was there indeed a young man who stayed with them, who liked reading Aquinas but questioned that good saint’s lack of initiative? Was there indeed a wanderer who he let out of the rain and watched return to health? Was there a stranger who kissed him suddenly in the night? Was that an angel? Or a demon? Or a figment of his drunken imagination? 

He buried all the thoughts with drink. Of course. 

Of course, the elders kept invoking him to go to confession, to do more rounds of the rosary, to copy out more manuscripts, as penance for all the drinking. He did them all, but kept drinking anyway. 

"Your focus has left our Lord, brother," they all said. 

He shrugged them away. Even if it were true, there was nothing he could do to stop all the thoughts that he kept having about the strange, mysterious guest. 

…………………………………

When he was sober enough, he noticed three weeks pass. 

He dragged himself into the cell that once held the agitator, and, having had two (or was it three?) bottles of wine with nothing else, fell back onto the pallet. 

He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “You like to mock me, don’t you," he said to the heavens. “You never tell me where he is. Or IF he is. Ah well. I probably deserve as much. I’m not sure I really want to be here, anyway." 

The drink slowly claimed him, and everything slowly grew dark. 

………………………………….

It was deep in his inebriated dreams that he felt a gentle, uncalloused hand caress his cheek. It was in those dreams that a quiet breath stopped in a dry sweetness over his lips. 

He did not dare open his eyes. He did not dare wake up. 

The lips kissed his cheeks, and his neck, and the top of his cassock. Meanwhile a hand was placed over his thigh, feeling him there. 

This was quite the vivid wet dream, if there ever was one. He must remember this particular kind of wine, and have it next time. He must have eaten some wild mushrooms and just did not remember. Whatever the case, he did not want it to end. Not yet. 

The hand slipped under the cloth, and stroked his thigh. He felt himself stiffening. His breaths increased, his heart began to pound. 

He felt the fingers circle around the shaft. He felt the tips fondle it gently. He felt a mouth kiss its end. 

He surrendered completely to the caresses, trying to stay asleep, afraid that if he awoke, it would be to the nightmare of the boring normalcy of his life. He stiffened and succumbed to the kisses and the strokes. 

He finally released, to lips that took it in with a final kiss. He did not dare open his eyes to see who it was. He caught his heart and his breaths, still unsure what exactly happened, but glad that it happened anyway. 

He felt the world around him descend into a pit deeper than he had ever been that was not hell, pulling him into a profound sleep that was more pleasurable than heaven. 

……………………………

He finally opened his eyes, with the bells for morning vespers. 

He felt a body beside him. 

He felt a warm body. 

He leapt to his feet, suddenly fully awake, fully sober. 

He blinked. He blinked again. He rubbed his eyes. He blinked one more time.

He poked the body. It was real and it was warm. It was asleep. It was no apparition. 

The angel had returned.


	7. touched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the 'too scared to tag' tumblr posts. I still am. Even for fanfic all writing confidence has been shot down. Then again confidence for practically everything has been shot down. 
> 
> I am being pessimistic and ungrateful. Thank you for liking.

Grantaire rubbed his eyes again, and felt the blonde head again for good measure. But his eyes did not deceive him. Or if they did, his hands touched a truth his eyes did not see. 

The wanderer, the agitator, the strange guest, lay on the pallet he had just been on. He had been beside him, for who knew how long. He came from somewhere, and was suddenly just there. 

The wanderer was feverish, but it was nothing a little rest could not mend. He was deeply asleep, and looked exhausted. 

The seminarian sighed, but with a smile. He searched for a bowl, cool water, and a towel. 

He gathered his wits and went off to morning vespers. He had to thank God for bringing him back. 

…………………………………. 

Several rounds of the rosary and many copied pages later, he returned to find the wanderer munching on some bread, reading Aquinas in bed. 

"I wish Aquinas applied his pragmatic method to other concepts besides the church and faith," Enjolras mused aloud, turning to him. 

"Good afternoon to you, too, wandering angel," the seminarian greeted, with some frustration. “Are you better?" 

"More or less." 

"Where have you been?" 

"Too dangerous to tell." 

"What happened to you?" 

"This and that." 

"Are you in trouble?" 

"I always am." 

"Are you ever going to give me straight answers?" 

The wanderer chuckled. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes and sighed. “Why are you here, then?" 

"I rather miss this pallet," he said, with a sly grin. 

"Is that all?" the seminarian asked, flatly. 

"Of course not," the agitator said. 

………………………….. 

"Did you think about it?" the angel asked. "Those things I said." 

The seminarian lay his right hand and arm by his side on the pallet. He did not want to move it anymore. That hand had brushed through so many pieces of cloth and leather in just one day he lost count somewhere in the middle. That did not include the errors he made along the way. HIs eyes were tired. His back was tired. His head did not want to think about anything. Not to mention anything that could possibly be dangerous to life and limb. He did not want to think about anything but the fact that an strange angel lay beside him, with an arm over his chest.

"You still awake?" the angel prodded.

"Sort of," he muttered. He was almost asleep though.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What do you think?"

He sighed. “Only that I’m the lowest sort of priest here, I’m not even really a priest yet, and this is my life, and the wine helps me sleep at night, and the world out there that you know? That world is not mine. Those words are very pretty, and very wise. But they are not mine."

They both were silent for a long moment. He distinctly felt his heart beating and his lungs breathing, both under the hand of a being he did not truly know from where he came. He felt it even more, that he was of this cloister, of this little village, of this small existence. He was merely touched by an angel, but he was definitely and completely mortal. 

The hand over him moved up, and pressed over his heart.

"Is that what you truly feel? Right here," the wanderer asked.

"I….don’t know," came the honest answer.

"Do you want to know?"

He was not sure what to tell him.

He heaved, feeling the hand over his heart, feeling its hold on him.


	8. token

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between the two tumblr installments combined in this chapter, my brain had been on the fritz. I thank K and various other people for putting up with me. 
> 
> Anyhow, thank you for still reading, and I hope you like.

The wanderer whispered into his ear. Words in the darkness, spoken by one who looked like a messenger of light. 

"Come with me." 

"Where?" the seminarian asked, too matter-of-factly than he wanted. 

His breath was hot with the fires of hell in Grantaire’s ear. It warmed the cheek. “Where we are needed, to stop evil from winning, disguised as leadership. To end injustice disguised as masterly mercy…" 

Grantaire sighed. “Plain. words. please." He was not one for rhetoric that went nowhere, for metaphors he did not understand. 

Enjolras sighed. “Southward." 

"Why?" 

"To end the rule of a lord there." 

"I can’t be useful to you as an agi—" 

"Yes, you can." 

"How?" 

"You are intelligent, you can write, and you are kind. And you are trained in a cloister. You could speak to people." 

Grantaire harrumphed it away. He was none of those things. “This is the only life I have." 

"So have another." 

"Easy for you to say." The man was an angel, after all. An angel with a golden tongue. 

The seminarian sighed deeply, and closed his eyes again. 

The wanderer’s voice breathed into his ear. “Consider it. Give me an answer when I return." 

"When?" 

"I cannot say." 

"At least," Grantaire whispered, half-asleep, half-awake, “prove to me that you are real." 

"What do you mean?" the wanderer asked. 

"Well, I seem to be the only one you talk to. I’m the only one who talks to you. I’m starting to think you just exist after too many bottles of wine." 

"But…the other monks…" 

"Who knows? Maybe they are just humoring me. The harmless drunk." He patted the wanderer’s hair again, just to make sure of the warm body beside him, breathing into his ear.

Enjolras sighed. “Very well."

The wanderer’s hands came toward his own neck. Then the seminarian felt some leather being strung over around the back of his head.

"Something to remember me by," the wanderer said, simply.

He peered down at the leather necklace, and found a silver ring hanging from his neck. “I cannot keep this," he immediately said.

The wanderer breathed again into his ear. “You asked for a token. You have it."

"But…"

"Keep it. Until I return."

The agitator kissed the ring, placed over the seminarian’s heart.


	9. storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious stuff first. Haiyan whacked through the lower half of my country something beyond terrible. Please donate something to help major relief efforts, here: <http://www.redcross.org.ph/donate>
> 
> Non-serious stuff: after it was sure K was alright, I let her prompt. She prompted, and this new chapter is the result. 
> 
> NSFW warning is mounted for this chapter.

The silver ring weighed heavily around his neck, hidden deeply inside the folds of cassock’s hood. It burned his skin, reminding him at all moments of the young agitator, the mysterious angel who spoke of deadly freedom. It constantly reminded him of the possible reality of a promise. 

He did not dare tell the other monks about the ring, or show it to them. After all, they should have given up all worldly goods and entanglements to follow the life devoted to God. Then again, from the beginning his intentions for entering the monastery were anything but noble, just practical. 

So his life resumed its boring normalcy once more, for a longer time. Only the ring around his neck reminded him of a truth he could not deny. A dangerous, but interesting truth. 

He held his hand over his chest, and over the ring, during morning vespers and evening prayers. 

Please, keep the angel safe from harm, he whispered to the heavens. I know you disapprove, but still. Keep him alive. For me? 

………………….

The winds blew. The rains pelted the fields. The storm raged. 

The windows opened and soaked the floors with water. The rooms grew cold. The lamps all blew out. The darkness filled the cells of the cloister. 

He peeked at all the other cells with the only working lamp, ensuring that all the monks and seminarians were all right and in their places for the night. Thus assured, he headed for wooden gate they opened for guests. He did not expect any wandering traveling, with those boisterous winds and that terrible soaking rain. He went there to close it tightly against the storm. 

But he heard furious knocking, pounding against the heavy door. 

He rushed to the door, feeling sorry, in spite of himself, for anyone out there in the storm. He pulled at the iron handle and forced just enough of the door open. 

It was sufficient. A person squeezed in, and toppled past the wooden door and into the cold passage. 

The seminarian rapidly pushed the door shut with his full weight, then looked at the stranger. 

"Why would anyone be even out there in that —— YOU!" 

The stranger had removed the cloak, revealing soaked golden curls. He smiled at the seminarian. “I seek refuge,” he gave the standard speech for hospitality with a smirk. 

"All are welcome in the house of the Lord," Grantaire gave the standard reply with a grin. 

The lightning cracked outside. The seminarian watched the water puddle around Enjolras. 

"You need to get out of those clothes," he said pragmatically. "Come with me…" 

But he was pulled back by the agitator. He was brought close, and kissed on the lips.

The rain stopped pounding in his ears. The cold stopped being felt, even felt warm. The whistling wind was forgotten. He felt the damp traveling clothes against his cassock.

"You…You still need to get out of those clothes," he said.

"It has been lonely…"

"Yes, yes, tell me later, but get out of those clothes first."

"You will take them off me?"

He turned and stared at the agitator. Enjolras grinned as he paled. 

He tightened the grip on the hand he held. He hastily brought them to the nearest empty cell.

Flustered, Grantaire left the stranger and headed to a pantry where they kept spare clothes for travelers. He chose a pair of breeches and a tunic that looked roughly the stranger’s size. Then he returned. 

He returned and found the agitator standing with his back to the door. Enjolras had shed all his clothes and cast them to the floor.

Grantaire stared at a bare back, sinewy, scarred with old wounds and scrapes. He gaped at a princely head surrounded by golden hair. 

He was committing sacrilege. He felt like worshipping this Greek god, even with all the wounds and healed scars. 

The agitator turned, and all of his remaining defences and thoughts melted into nothing. 

The agitator brought his naked body up to the seminarian, who had let his arms drop to his sides. The agitator brought his lips up to his own again. He felt his body rub against the course fabric of the cassock. He felt his arms lift overhead as the robe was gathered up and removed. 

A hand was placed around his shaft, while the other hand kept his head in place as he was kissed. A shaft was placed against his own and rubbed to his as the agitator’s hips rocked. The tight, thin, sinewy chest stayed pressed to him as he was kissed on the lips, on the neck, at the ears. He felt himself grow warm, fill with sweat. He felt himself harden, as the stranger stiffened there, as the shaft rubbed at his thighs and shaft, making him tingle, making his heart pound.

The lightning cracked. The thunder boomed. The rain smashed at the walls. They would not be heard above the storm. 

He found himself on the pallet, with his shaft aloft and needy. It was kissed and licked, making him feel every touch of his lips, even as he twisted and turned to make sense of the wonderful sensations. He released much too early into him, desperate to find peace from the dangerous pleasure.

But the stranger licked the fluids from him. Then he moved up and kissed him again.

He whispered into his ear. “But I am not done yet.”

He watched helplessly as the stranger stood in his nakedness before him, rubbing his shaft as he approached again. He lay on the pallet helplessly as his legs were parted and lifted. He began to stiffen again as the stranger placed a hand where he did not expect one, and touched him, sending a surge of surprising ecstasy.

He felt the shaft again. It was placed before him, then into him, then inside him.

He gasped and panted, as the shaft rubbed into that place, sending surge after surge of delight to his mind and body. He felt his body stiffen as the pleasure mounted. He felt the shaft inside him excite. He held his own to control the mounting sensations there, sensations that were wondrous, incredible, but mysterious and terrible. His body knew that there was still better, if he waited just a bit more. 

The thrusting hastened as his own tightness coursed though his body. They panted together as their heartbeats paced faced together. His mind began to feel it, he was almost there, reaching a pinnacle he did not know, but he almost there….

Then he felt a surrender, a sudden floating, a sudden lightness of being. He trembled as every part of him released, toward thoughts of clouds in the heaven, of being with this angel. He felt the shaft within him release, as the stranger trembled in surrendered delight himself. He caught his breath, as his body and mind floated on air, above the storm, above his life.

He felt his body relax, as he sensed his mind darkening toward sleep. 

The stranger lay over his hairy chest, in his nakedness, catching his own breath, watching him breathe deeply, trying to make sense of what happened but failing completely.

He did not dare ask how or why. He just knew he had been touched again by the angel, the angel who brought death.

With the angel’s body and breath over him, he descended into a peaceful place, one he would never understand, but surrendered to.


	10. delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this is NSFW, for better or worse.

He heard the heavy pounding on the door. But his head spun, his body felt heavy and weak, and nothing made sense. He felt worse than hungover. He also heard the stern loud voices from beyond the door as it was pounded. But everything felt bolted to the pallet, and he was drifting back into a deep sick slumber. 

Only one thought spun around him: Where was the angel? Had he left? Was he still here? Was last night another apparition, a very long one, but nothing more? 

He drift to something like sleep for a few moments, then sought him again. 

Where was the angel? The wandering angel? 

Heavy boots and armor crashed open the door and marched in. He heard despite his head feeling ready to split. He felt awful and chilly and just sick. The ring burned over his chest, hidden under the tunic he wore…and he was not sure why he was in a tunic. 

Some people came into the cell with a crash. 

"Where is he?" some knightly-sounding man demanded. "Where is the agitator? Where are you hiding him?" 

He heard familiar voices answering the gruff unfamiliar ones, but he could not understand what was being said, his head felt so hot, his body so chilled. 

"Where is the angel?" he asked everyone and no one. He did not care about anything else. He wanted to know where the angel was. 

He fell back to remembering the stormy night. In his feverish state, he could not help remembering that night, and reliving it. 

His hands lowered his undergarments. His hands sought his groin and found his shaft. He did not care who was there or what was there with him. He just felt the terrible, unrelenting urge to rub his shaft, and remember, and rub, and stiffen, and gasp, and pump, and fill, and stiffen, and release, spilling fluids onto the pallet while he caught his breath and drifted again into a feverish darkness. 

"He is delirious, and possessed!" a voice spoke above him. "We must pray!" 

And so they did, while the angry gruff voices grumbled and spat in disgust and marched away. 

But even as the familiar drones of the hail-mary’s and the our-father’s circled him, even as strong hands held down his arms and legs, he felt the urges rise in him again. He felt himself stiffen, he felt his shaft stiffen and raise aloft, as he recalled again how wonderful it felt to have his angel inside him, sending waves of previously unknown pleasure. Despite the best prayers and rosary rounds and hands pinning him down, he felt himself releasing again, splashing fluids over himself again. 

Then it all darkened. 

………………………………….

"Grantaire." 

"Grantaire." 

He felt cool water over his forehead. He felt a coolness and smelled a stench in his undergarments. His soaked tunic had been changed into a new one. 

"The fever has finally broke. How are you?" 

It was that voice, that voice that spoke in his delirium, and whispered strange and wonderful things during that stormy night. 

"I want you." It was all he could say. "I want you I want you I want you. I don’t know why but I want you and I want to follow you to whatever hell you know. But I want to follow you. I want you." He wanted his arms around the angel again, feeling the scars on the back, feeling the curls from between his fingers, feeling the being within him. 

The voice chuckled. “Maybe I spoke too soon.” 

"It was you they were looking for!" he blurted. "They did not find you! How? When? Why?" 

"It does not matter anymore," the agitator said, placing the cool cloth over his forehead again. 

Absolutely nothing made sense just then. It was worse than a long hangover. His head no longer felt stuffed with cotton, his body now felt lighter. But by all the heavens and the gods, Greek, Roman, and Christian, he wanted that body again. 

"Please…please…" he begged, still dizzy and dazed. "Let me…" 

"No," the agitator said. 

A wave of disappointment wafted around him. He was not good enough for him. 

"Wait a moment. You misunderstand," the agitator said. "I meant, you’re too weak right now. Allow me." 

"But….you already…." 

"Pay me back some other time," the agitator whispered into his ear, as he leveled his body over the seminarian, and began to kiss him.

..............................

It took more hours of sleeping before the world made sense again. It had not helped that the agitator pleasured him again until he lost himself once more. 

It had not helped that because his mind was so feverish, so confused, yet so needy, he took the reins away from him, even if he did not know what he was doing, not really. 

"Please," he begged, drunk on sickness and need, mounting over him, placing the agitator’s hands around his shaft. He both sweated and chilled. He panted. He gasped as the hands wrapped around his shaft. "Please." 

The angel understood. He brought himself near, and kissed its tip, sending a wave of delight. He continued to savor that instrument, alternately kissing it and licking it and milking it. 

The seminarian felt a rising peace, even as he hardened. 

"Please," he said. "Let me into you. Please." He sounded so drunk, beyond drunk. He sounded like he had eaten too many wild mushrooms, had smoked too many pipes. He did not care. 

The angel quietly opened his legs and wrapped them around him. 

He did not know what he was doing. He just knew he was stiff and needy, and needed to press into him. To feel him, to feel being inside him. 

He thrust, slowly, uneasily, once. It felt tight, constricting. It also felt warm. He felt his member being wrapped by the angel’s being. He was rewarded by a gentle gasp.

He thrust again, feeling himself stiffen even more. He needed to do it more, more, more, he did not know why, but his everything tingled and he needed to do it more, more, more. So he pressed gently, and rocked his hips, and placed himself inside him more, more, more.

He sweated and chilled, both. He felt the sensations rising in him again. Nothing made sense. Only that his hips were moving, his shaft was thrusting, his shaft was being filled by an angel, and the angel seemed to be pleased.

The gasps from the angel turned into moans, gutteral, long, almost feral. The legs wrapped around him tighter, as he found himself moving in time with the angel’s rising pleasure.

He felt himself engorging, filling, ready to spill. It scared him, it made him harden instead of stiffen inside him. 

But the angel brought his face down toward him and kissed him. “Do not be afraid. Let us reach this height together. Give yourself to me.” 

He took a deep breath, and obeyed, releasing himself inside him, as his whole being trembled, as his brain lifted into a cloudy haze of ecstasy. 

"Now, fall back into me," the angel said. 

He obeyed, without knowing or feeling why. His body merely followed the orders, descending into the pallet over the angel, as he caught his breaths. He felt himself falling into deep slumber. 

"Yes, go sleep, my friend. Sleep," said the angel. "Do not fear these senses. They are as true as all you believe. You will remain delirious if you keep in fear, for your mind will not accept your heart. You will go mad if you keep it so. Let your mind accept your heart. Do not fear, and sleep." 

Wrapping his body around the angel, he obeyed, and everything disappeared, except the angel’s body surrounding his.


	11. cellar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some NSFW at the end, but only a small bit. My mind is calming down, I think. 
> 
> I will soon be finishing this story. When that will happen is still unclear.

"Grantaire." 

"Grantaire." 

He woke up with a start, completely awake, completely sobered, completely alert. He paled as he stared at the agitator, at the angel, still there. He backed up against the wall, and kept staring. 

"You. You’re still here. Why are you still here? With me. Why are you still here?"

He needed a drink. He needed a drink so badly at just that moment. He wanted to go back to dreaming, to believing that this was all in his head and nothing more. 

"I am still here." The melodious voice from the heavens declared with a grin. "Problem?"

"People are after you! Or something of the sort! They were here! You could have been captured!" He stammered as he kept staring at the long golden curls tied back at the nape, at the blue eyes. "You should be far away from here! Or something! Just not here!"

"Why?" the angel asked. "Do you not want me here?"

"No! I mean, yes! I mean….oh, I don’t know!" He really needed a drink now, to calm his nerves.

Enjolras watched him, then laughed heartily. “They’re gone. They found a seminarian possessed by a devil.”

The said seminarian blushed. “But…but…”

"What is one more monk among several?" the agitator asked. He further said, "How do you people manage to stay so long in such itchy clothes?"

Grantaire sighed. The ring cooled his chest. “One gets used to it.”

"One does not need to stay, if he doesn’t want to," Enjolras goaded.

"Easy for you to say. Heaven feeds you," the seminarian said, staring again.

"Come with me," the agitator said again.

"Two people are harder to feed, harder to hide," the seminarian replied.

"Two people are harder to fight."

"Two people are easier to kill."

"Not when there are two minds to think how to avoid death."

"Why did I ever let you out of the rain?" Grantaire slammed his forehead with his palm.

He got out of head and immediately headed for the wine cellar. He heard the agitator follow after him, but he did not care.

He uncorked the nearest bottle of ale and overturned it into his mouth. Finishing that, he staggered into the racks with the finer gifts of the nobility. He grabbed the closest one. He sat on the floor and finished the bottle of fine wine in several gulps. 

He looked up as the wine warmed his throat and dulled his mind, hoping that things would change, that the angel would be gone.

Unfortunately, the angel remained standing over him. Worse, he felt his groin stiffening, felt that he wanted to grab the angel by the neck and kiss him on the lips. 

"What did I say about going mad?" the angel said. "Make your mind agree with your heart." 

"So easy for you to say," he answered with a drawl. "Your mind is so strong, your heart so silent and devoted to your mind. So easy for you to say." 

They heard furious knocking at the gates. 

The heavy knocking turned into furious marching footfall. 

Grantaire grabbed the agitator and pulled him toward a large crack hidden by a deep wine rack. He was drunk, but he was not stupid. At least he did not think so. 

He had used it several times before hiding from the elder monks. The cellar keeper, of course, knew about it, but let him be. 

He pushed Enjolras into the deeper part of the crack, wedged him into it. He placed his hand over the agitator’s mouth, and pressed himself against him, his chest touching his, his shaft nudging the agitator’s thigh. He chuckled quietly. He felt so warm, so drunk. Having the angel’s breath through his fingers over the mouth made him want to rub the shaft pressed against the angel’s thigh. 

His thoughts were disturbed as the cellar door was opened with a crash. The clanking of swords and armor passed through the halls of the cellar. He clamped his mouth shut, and felt his heart pound. He still felt like wanting to rub his shaft, but that could wait. 

"We know you are hiding him here!" The gruff voice had returned. "You are obstructing the law of the king by hiding him. If you don’t bring him out, we may have just cause to arrest all of you and destroy this monastery!" 

Enjolras squirmed to free himself, but Grantaire wedged him in deeper, shaking his head at him. He clamped the hand tighter over the mouth, as Enjolras began to protest. 

"So many strangers and pilgrims pass through the sanctuary," one of the elders said amicably. "Who exactly are you searching for?" 

Several soldiers passed near the wine rack they were at. Grantaire placed a hand over the agitator’s head and lowered the head near his chest to hide the golden curls. 

The gruff voice spoke again. “We have learned that you have sheltered one of the princes of the west, the agitator who riled the western and southern lands to rebellion against their lords. We have information that he is hiding here again before the heads toward the east, to gather soldiers and fighters, and fight the king.” 

"That is a story you gave me," the elder said. "Not a description of a man." 

The soldiers marched away from the crack, away from the wine rack, away from the hall. Their footfall softened away from the them. Grantaire dared to breathe. 

"Very well," the gruff voice said. "We are searching for a lithe young man with blonde curled hair and blue eyes. He has a royal bearing. He carries the ring of the lords of the west." 

The silver ring over Grantaire’s heart chilled.

The elder chose his words. “We…may have sheltered a man of such kind. But that was months ago, and we have not heard about him since.”

Grantaire breathed again. The elder had been the one nearest the door, thus the one who escorted the king’s men. But he was responsible for the relics the monastery maintained; he was not the one caring for the sanctuary. The particular elder the military man was speaking to had not known of Enjolras’s current arrival, even if he had already been in sanctuary for….how many days it been since the storm, since he had been so feverish, since he had savored this man? 

The gruff voice groaned. “Very well. But if I hear…” 

"We render to Caesar that which is Caesar's, and to God that which is God’s," the elder said with calm. 

The voices disappeared from the cellar. 

Grantaire kept the hand over the mouth. 

He moved up and down, rubbing his groin against the agitator’s thigh. It was too much excitement for one morning. He was drunk in the morning. And apparently his chest was touching a prince of the west. 

He rubbed and heaved, as his member stiffened against the thigh. He sweated and panted. He did not ask anything of the agitator. He was a dog, a mongrel, merely wanting peace from the disturbing pleasures in his head, giving in to them. He just wanted to get rid of the mounting need in him again. So he rubbed, sweated, panted, and heaved. 

When he trembled as the need was finally appeased, as his stiffness finally found release and calmed, he let go of the hand and moved away. 

He fell back against the wine casks, and slunk to the floor with his legs spread out. He felt the drool fall from his lips, the urine and semen seep his legs, and heard the first snores as he dropped to heavy drunken slumber.


	12. conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It ends here, finally, after several months delay. This is the last bout of nsfw. 
> 
> I'm pretty sure my nsfw isn't the best out there, but oh well. 
> 
> Thank you to those who followed this crazy intermittent thing. I'm not sure why you do, but thank you. Thanks for K for the nice art that popped up once in a while for it. Again I'm not sure about absolutely anything anymore, so thanks for sticking around to finish this.

He had a baptism. 

The water trickled down his disheveled dark hair, falling onto his face, onto his back and shoulders. More water streamed down, and over his chest. 

A damp cloth passed over his lips and face, and over his neck and chest. More water was poured over himself. The cloth cleansed his lower parts as well, taking the stench and filth away.

Water poured over him again, gently, covering his hair, his back, his body, his legs, washing away the impurity, the weakness.

He whispered his devotion, to the God who accepted him for all his uncertainty, to the holy men who tolerated his weakness, to the angel who came and stole his heart and mind.

He surrendered himself to them.

………………………

He opened his eyes. He blinked once or twice. He looked up at the blank ceiling of a cell. He was under a blanket, and in a fresh nightgown. He was clean. 

He did not know what happened to several hours of his day.

The angel was gone, though. So he closed his eyes again and drifted back to sleep.

But in an hour he was more awake.

He sat up, and found the angel sighing at him from the side of the bed. He gave him a sad smile and sighed back. 

His mind had been rested, though. In sleep his heart had decided. In waking his mind had caught up and agreed with his heart. 

He got up. Finding his cassock hung over a chair, he took off the nightgown and quickly dressed into the cassock. 

He smiled well at the angel and headed to the door. 

"Where are you going this time?" the angel asked. 

"To say farewell," he replied, and walked through the hall. 

.............................................................................................................................

He had already reached two other fiefdoms with high stone walls, had watched Enjolras rouse two fiefdoms to at least stop accepting their life without question, had watched two fiefdoms begin to think and begin to fight. Still he found it impossible to believe that he was gone from the church, the cloister, the seminary.   
He had already slept many nights, feeling Enjolras’s warm breath so close to him, feeling the warm body touching his, feeling that brave heart beating steadily by his chest. Still he found it impossible to believe. 

He had already had many days discussing everything: religion, his and the orient’s and the unaccepted and the obscure and the lost; literature, the banned and the shunned and the controlled; laws and lawmaking, the right and the wrong and the good and the stupid. And everything high and low and in between. Still he did not believe. 

Someday he would wake up from the long dream and find himself alone and terribly hung over from too many bottles of unconsecrated blood of the savior. 

Someday. Very soon. 

"You are thinking again," the angel spoke. 

"I have a right to do so," Grantaire replied. 

"You are thinking this is not real again." 

"I have a right to do so," he replied. 

"What will it take to convince you? That you are here, with me, on this bed?" 

"Nothing." He sighed. 

He was in the presence of an angel, at every waking and dreaming moment. Golden-haired, of fine build, strong, swift, and beautiful, terrible in his beauty. Of course he was in a dream. His life was a dream. And soon he would wake up. 

The angel kept thinking that ravishing him would better remind him that it was all true and real. Not so. He thought, even more, that it was false. That he was false. 

It did not stop the agitator from trying, though. 

He allowed Enjolras to loosen his tunic, then lift it away from him, as the angel kissed his lips and neck. He let him lower his trousers then remove them. 

Laying beside him, he let himself be kissed as the angel clasped his groin. He soon grew dazed and needing, his body feeling both tensed and eased. He watched without understanding as his member slowly rose with the angel’s ministrations. He accepted without comprehending that his heart beat steadily and earnestly, his blood pulsing through his body and through his shaft. 

The angel lifted himself over him, and set himself over the hips, letting the shaft inside him. The angel’s member rested on him, stiffening as well. His hands clasped that shaft, and fondled it tenderly as the angel rocked over him, gasping as his own shaft pierced the angel from within, as the hands touched points of need and want. So their bodies moved together, rocking, heaving, touching, and sweating. So he felt his stiffness fill and tighten around the angel, so he felt the stiffness that his hands held fill.

"Let…let me taste you…" He did not understand why he begged. His mouth simply blurted and spoke.

"Only if you let me taste you as well," said the angel.

He would never refuse him.

The position was strange, but the urge needed to be filled. Soon he found himself savoring the angel’s stiffness in his lips, soaking it with his tongue, even as he gasped again and again as the angel did the same with his own stiffness. It was a tangle of arms and legs and lips and bodies. They licked and kissed and gasped, slowly gaining a pace alike to each other, until they moved as one again.

His mouth filled with a salty sweetness as he felt himself tremble and empty out the same. Peace filled his head and heart as he untangled himself from the pleasure, as the angel continue to fondle his member with kisses, sending some more mild tremors of ecstasy.

He had been consumed by an angel for his will, once again, devoured for the angel’s pleasure. Soon he would die again, as he would die many more times, with the angel’s face the last thing he would see, as it remained watching over him. He would die, feeling heaven in his body and soul, from an angel who brought him nearer to hell.

This was his hell, and his heaven: He would wake again the next morning, with the angel beside him, still asleep, his perfect frame heaving, his breaths touching his face, his body sharing its warmth. Always he would doubt and disbelieve. For he does not deserve the angel, or this pleasure, or this life. 

It was his penance, for separating himself from the cloister, for choosing this life.

He would accept this penance, for as long as the godsend angel will have him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EK out. 
> 
> If I don't see you again, good afternoon good evening and good night.


End file.
